Cover Reveal: Wonder F*ck by Maggie Marr

They call me the Wonder F*ck. Why? Because I’ve got a rocket in my pocket and I live to take you for a ride. I’ve got everything a woman wants and all in one tight, well-muscled, long, hard package. My goal is to make you come so hard and so often that you finally understand your innate power and how absolutely-fucking beautiful you are. Because every woman is beautiful. Being the Wonderf*ck is my vocation and all I ever wanted to be...or so I thought.

Until Tara.

My sexy-neighbor with her douche-nugget ex-fiance. Tara and I weren’t friends, barely acquaintances, until the tears, and the fist-fight, and then...the sex. Now what do I do? I can’t be me when I'm with her and I can’t be Wonder F*ck. I want her, but having Tara means watching the walls of my carefully crafted existence crumble and fall and while I have the strength to provide countless orgasms, I’m not sure if I have the strength to love.

*****

EXCERPT

Los Angeles is a small town. I know it seems impossible to believe, unless you live here, but it is. It’s pockets of small communities stacked beside each other. My parents were raised here, I’ve lived here my entire life except during college, my sister is a Judge here. At this stage there is one degree of separation between everyone--including celebrities.

I suppose it’s inevitable.

I stand in Gelson’s. I grasp a tomato. Which one is firm and round and needs to be grilled this afternoon? I hear a cart before I see her. I glance up.

Her face turns red. A pinkish blush. She swallows. She’s not nearly as ‘done up’ as she was when we were together. It’s not Natasha, or Shelly or Carolyn or Leslie or my personal longest vocation Cheryl. This woman is many many women back--six or seven.

Jennifer.

This woman gave me the name of Jennifer. I don’t flinch. I smile. I don’t give her any hint of recognizing her. I don’t let on as though I’ve caressed every inch of skin. Pulled the nipples of her perky breasts now hidden behind a sweatshirt with Stanford emblazoned across the front into my mouth. I don’t let on that I remember she has a special penchant for fucking in the bathtub or that she likes to be blindfolded while having sex. No. I push all of the sexual specifics, every last lovely detail from my mind. I compartmentalize—as men are so very able to do—and I simply smile and say, “Hello.”

Her head jerks back and the skin between her eyebrows creases. One quick breath, as though she considers whether she’s lost her mind.

“Never able to pick a good tomato.” I continue. “They’re always mealy when I get them home.”

Now she’s uncertain. Uncertain that I’m the man she thinks I am. It’s been over a year and her memory of our time together, while so vivid she can feel every touch, every thrust, in fact I’d bet her panties are wet right now, she’s unsure. I mean people do look substantially different when they’re fucking.

“You want to go with firm.” She lifts a tomato and presses the taut red fruit to her nose. Her gaze meets mine. No, no, she knows it’s me. Her tongue flicks out over her lips. “This one is the one you want.” She holds out the juicy flesh toward me.

I take it. Our fingers touch. A zing pulses through me and I’m hard. Simple as that. Hard as a rock.

“Thank you.” I lift an eyebrow and tilt my head and walk away from the produce and toward check-out. I don’t sleep with every woman that calls. Nor is every number with Wonderfuck scrawled above it mine. I’m selective. Careful. Detailed. One can’t be too careful when meeting women to fuck away their insecurities and heart break. As for the other men who share my name and my vocation. I’ve not met them, perhaps we should form a club.

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